


Paint the Meadows with Delight (Under the Bushes Remix)

by Red



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Animalistic, Biting, Breeding, Charles is a Tease, Courtship, Erik is a Sweetheart, Faun!Charles, Fauns & Satyrs, Friends to Lovers, Implied Lactation Kink, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Multiple Orgasms, Outdoor Sex, Remix, Satyr!Erik, Scent Marking, Watersports, doing it goat-style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since last spring, Erik has been playing the long game with their courtship. The whole year, Charles has been a patient enough faun. But at with the start of a heat, it's not easy being patient. </p><p>And this, Charles is sure, is the season Erik will be his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint the Meadows with Delight (Under the Bushes Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]Paint the Meadows with Delight (Under the Bushes Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212014) by [Shame_i_translate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_i_translate/pseuds/Shame_i_translate)
  * Inspired by [To the Berry Bushes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327267) by [velvetcadence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence). 
  * In response to a prompt by [velvetcadence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence) in the [remixmadness2014](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2014) collection. 



> Thank you to velvetcadence and also to Garnetquyen, who inspired the original work. 
> 
> As with the original story, in this verse satyrs are buck goats from the waist down and fauns does, regardless of the gender of the character. I use "female" descriptors for Charles's anatomy, and while in the context of this verse they're the words for faun parts, do tread carefully if that might be a trigger. 
> 
> And for a second warning, as velvetcadence put it once: man, goats are kinky as fuck. Mind the tags.

The season is half gone already. Yarrow has begun to bloom, and the blackberries have grown fat enough for the picking, and a faun can’t walk but two yards without catching scent of _someone_ in heat. 

Charles sighs, rewrapping his scarf as he stares at his reflection in the still pond. Far from prettiest in his herd, he’s never really considered himself prime mate material. Much as the kids may enjoy learning of the turning of seasons and the movements of the heavens, Charles has been accused of having his head too far in the clouds, several times. 

Nevertheless.

He frets again with the ends of the scarf, combs his fingers worriedly through the mused fur of his thighs. 

Nevertheless, he’s been courted for near seven seasons, now. And this, he’s sure-- _this_ is going to be his year. His tail shakes eagerly as he takes up the basket again, and he starts trotting fast towards the large oak where he and Erik meet. 

It’s embarrassing, but between the smells of spring and the thought of his long-time satyr friend, he already feels slick beneath the tail. Biting his lip, all he can do is _hope_ he isn’t indecent. Tally any longer, and he shall truly be late. 

For the past seven seasons, Erik has gone from a dear friend to a gracious, gentlemanly courter. Yes, there was the incident on the mountain last spring, when Erik had grabbed him so suddenly Charles couldn’t help but startle. But Erik had set Charles down again so quickly and apologized so vehemently. 

Charles had never been so disappointed. 

Really. He very nearly doubted Erik’s attraction after all of that. Playful capture was one of the traditional courting methods amongst their kind, and Erik didn’t even give him a chance to _pretend_ to protest. One undignified yelp, and that was it, Charles had been right back on his hooves. 

But while Erik let him go then, afterwards, he kept coming around. Kept asking after Charles, kept trying to take his hand, kept bringing him little tokens all the summer and fall and winter and spring. And if Charles didn’t tell Erik how he had to spend the rest of that day on the mountain, holed up in a little cave away from the herd--grinding his fingers urgently against the wet folds of his heat-swollen cunt, bleating just from the memory of Erik’s smell and strength... 

Well, a faun needs a few secrets, and thinking of this one is _hardly_ keeping the fur clean.

He must not look too far amiss, however. When he approaches Erik--at a composed pace, of course--there’s no sign Erik notices anything strange. He looks over Charles briefly before wishing him a good day. Then, charming as ever, Erik produces a little flower from behind his back. 

“Oh,” Charles says, blushing. He shifts his basket to his shoulder, and takes the delicate blossom. A small, fragrant thing, Charles isn’t sure how Erik ever carried it without bruising the petals. “How wonderful!” 

It’s from one of the pomegranate trees near where the unmated satyrs live and--more and more frequently this time of year--cross horns. Feeling like he’s near as red as his scarf, Charles manages to stammer out a proper greeting, but all he can do for a moment is stare at the flower. 

Pomegranates for fertility, that’s all he can think. When he glances up at Erik, though, there’s no knowing smirk, nothing of the sort. Erik’s glaring off to the side at some tree-roots, as if they did him some grievous personal offense. 

Charles smiles into the flower as he brings it to his nose. It smells sweet and lovely, nowhere as delicious as Erik’s musk. 

Would it be too forward, he wonders, to just push his nose up against one of Erik’s long curling horns? _Or, better yet_ , he thinks, _the fur of his thighs, maybe he’s just had a piss_ \-- 

Charles snaps out of it when Erik asks for the basket. Truthfully, Charles had been hoping to hide behind it should he start dripping all over the forest floor. In his distraction, though, he hands it over easily.

Erik’s hand brushes his on the handle. 

“Your knitting turned out well,” Erik says when they touch. His voice is very low. Charles has to suppress a shiver; it wouldn’t do to look skittish again this season. “The scarf is very becoming.” 

No, it wouldn’t do at all to be skittish, Charles thinks. Not when all he’s thinking is, sod scarves, let me work on some kids. His tail raises and flags slightly before he can still it again, lowering it decorously. 

At least Erik is facing him and can’t see. 

“Thank you, Erik,” he manages, and they start their journey toward the blackberries. 

As an unmated faun, it’s his duty to gather for the herd. Charles tucks the flower neatly in his scarf, walking quietly at Erik’s side. It’s actually very kind of Erik to come berry-picking, a task that is surely far less interesting than spearfishing or locking horns or whatever else unmated satyrs are wont to do. 

Glancing at Erik out the corner of his eye, he considers his friend. Erik always seems happy to accompany him on any little errand. He can be stern, sure. But beneath that he’s good-natured and kind, ever patient with the youngest satyrs. Charles has watched him, more than once, demonstrating how to carve an _aulos_ or the proper ties for a fishnet. He’s slim, but strong; his horns are always gleaming and unmarred, like he must win all his tussles. 

There’s simply no better choice in a mate, and Charles is on the verge of telling him so, when Erik stops them on the path.

“What is it?” Charles asks. The wood seems silent and safe enough, but Erik’s nostrils flare like he’s scented something distasteful. 

Charles blanches. Erik isn’t looking at him, he’s just sniffing at the air, but obviously Charles needs to get his thoughts in order, he must _reek_ of heat-musk. Turning, Erik takes a step back on the path, still looking into the wood.

“Let’s go this way, instead--” he starts, but whatever else he may have said is cut off. 

Out in the trees, a faun is bleating, high and wild. Charles steps back himself, hearing the answering call of a rutting satyr. 

“I--of course,” he stammers. He almost bolts up a steep rocky patch, trusting Erik’s balance to be as good as his own. He doesn’t slow down until those hungry cries are far behind them, and they’re almost waist-deep in brambles. 

Turning then, he looks up at Erik as he tries to catch his breath. 

Erik’s flushed, panting near as bad as Charles. He meets Charles’s eyes, and just like that, they can’t stop laughing. 

It _is_ absurd. There’s bucks and does fucking in every last meadow and cave. It’s spring, for heaven’s sake! But here they are, running off like a few sex-scared humans. Charles is giggling as he picks their way out of the bramble patch, and back on a path. 

“Come on, then,” he says, gesturing toward the berry bushes nearby. 

This route is the shortest, which is why he never takes it with Erik. But as quick as the walk may be, Erik doesn’t hesitate from making it pleasant. Charles finds a root to “trip” over, and Erik gets his arm around his waist straight away. 

It’s lovely, his steady grip. Charles fancies he’ll get grabbed up like last spring. But Erik is, yet again, nothing but decorous. He shifts his hand over, smoothing the fur on Charles’s spine and forearm, before taking Charles’s hand in his own. 

They hold hands for the rest of short journey. Erik’s hand is large, comforting and familiar. He has very long fingers, and this is far from the first time Charles has noticed. 

The minute they find fruit, he lets Erik go, sure his own palm is a clammy mess. Grabbing an over-ripe berry that would never make it to the herd anyway, he desperately tries to cover his distraction. Biting in the fruit, the taste bursts sweet over his tongue. He swallows, before he realizes how quiet Erik’s become. 

When he looks over, Erik's staring like he wants to shove Charles under the bushes, like he’s consumed by spring. Charles swallows again, feeling a rush of pressure in his groin. His bladder _aches_ , it’s all he can do to hold back his water. 

“Erik,” he asks, breathless. “Is there something wrong?” 

Erik looks like he’s about to snap the basket in half. But he just turns away, busying himself with the berries high on the bush where Charles can't reach. 

“It’s nothing,” is all he'll say. 

For a moment, Charles watches. He has half a mind to throw Erik over his _own_ shoulder. Honestly, this rate, it’ll be seven more seasons before they finally enjoy spring! 

And while there’s a small part of Charles that still fears Erik won’t like his scent, won’t think him suitable as a mate--what he saw just then was definitely a satyr struggling with the start of rut. 

If Erik wants to try to be patient, that’s his right. There’s just some ways fauns have learned to make patience more... _challenging_. 

Charles goes back to his picking. He starts out right around chest-level, but he doesn’t reach all too far into the branches. He’s been gathering for many seasons, now, and it’s quick work to fill even a basket as large as the one they’re using. Soon he’s gathering the berries at stomach and then waist level, and then there’s really just no choice but to get down on his knees to gather the lowest berries. 

This time, when his tail raises, he doesn’t try to stop it. He lifts it high, flags it like a doe out for breeding, humming his favorite of the ancient fertility songs. From this position, he has no clue when and if Erik will see the display. Oh well, he thinks, nothing for it but to do a thorough job. 

Berry after berry, he strips the underside of the bush. He's reaching in deep when the scent hits, and in his haste to stand his horns gouge a branch, the fruit in his hand drops to the ground. 

He wheels around to see Erik finishing, his large prick still in hand. Trickles of urine trail down the back of his knuckles, and Charles content be happy enough to watch that, but it pales to the sight of Erik's face. 

What is so familiar has been transformed entire by rut. Erik's beard and chest are dripping with piss, the smell intoxicating; and as Charles takes it in, Erik paws at the ground and bears his teeth. 

It's all Charles can do to stay upright. Carefully, mindful of how dizzy Erik's making him, Charles approaches. 

It's not that he hasn't seen how sharp and big Erik's teeth are. It's not as if he hasn't before glimpsed the startling red of Erik's cock, emerging from his dark pelt. It's not even as if he hasn't scented Erik's musk, as he did last spring. 

It's just that the entire mating display--directed at _him_ \--has Charles overcome completely. 

And, possibly, the pheromones have him a bit drunk. 

Which is quite all right, he thinks deliriously. That just means they'll be compatible, the young he'll carry will be strong. 

Before Charles even realizes it himself, he has his hand on Erik's face. He cups the strong line of his jaw, strokes down his neck and chest, letting Erik's urine mark his palm. Charles's tail flicks again, and he bleats helplessly, touching Erik's cock for the first time. 

The flesh there, it's slick and tight, almost scalding with blood. He's huge, just massive. And, yes, satyrs _are_ as a rule, but this--Charles doesn't think it's even halfway erect yet. He actually hopes not, as he cautiously traces up the tapered head. 

Erik has yet to mark him properly, after all. 

And he’s yet to give Erik _his_ scent. For a moment, when Erik draws his fingers shyly between Charles’s thighs, he can’t. Erik’s touch is delicate, careful like that part of Charles isn’t built to take a satyr’s passion, but it’s still good. Charles trembles, grinding his clit down on Erik’s fingertips, arousal too great to let his urine out at first. He bleats again, desperate, and when Erik’s touch slides back he can finally release. 

At first he only lets a small trickle, nervous that Erik won’t like his musk, even with how he's been courting. But when Erik groans and pulls him close with his other arm, Charles gushes, soaking his fur and Erik’s arm with the stink of fertile doe. 

It’s utterly impossible to stay standing upright after that, particularly after Erik unwinds his scarf and tosses it toward the basket--such consideration, even during rut--and bites Charles’s shoulder in claim. The mark aches as Erik helps him to the ground, and Charles whines, spreading his thighs in welcome. He needs Erik so, needs the pleasure of a hard prick shoved deep. His hoofs scrape against the ground as he shifts impatiently. Erik doesn’t seem in any rush to be on him, which Charles just can’t understand, until-- 

The first jet of Erik's piss catches him across the chest, pooling on his sternum to trickle down his sides. Charles gasps, showing teeth as he scents; Erik aims his cock lower, striping Charles’s fur. Piss lands hot against the exposed flesh of his cunt, and Charles squirms, ecstatic. He can feel Erik’s mark trailing behind him, soaking into the coarse fur over his spine. No matter how he may bathe, no matter how long this season will last, there will be no mistaking it. All the satyrs and fauns will take one whiff of him and know, know that he’s under Erik’s claim. 

It’s a heady feeling. When Erik’s finished, Charles clutches at him urgently, and the satyr falls on him then. They kiss, pressing frantic against each other, mingling scents. Erik’s prick is up against Charles’s stomach, and Charles is so maddened and needy for it. Tilting his hips, he throws one leg around Erik’s thigh, rocking against the jut of his hip, smearing the fur with his arousal. He claws frantically at Erik’s back, pleading, and Erik growls and pins him, Erik gets his mouth around the sharp little arc of one of Charles’s horns and sucks. 

Charles makes a shaky little cry at that--the bases of his horns are so sensitive--and he nearly starts sobbing when Erik finally takes pity and gets a hand back between his thighs. More certain of his touch, now, Erik rubs his thumb over Charles’s throbbing clit, slides a finger up his hole. Moaning, Charles thrusts down against Erik’s hand, and when Erik shoves a second finger in and crooks them, that’s when it’s too much. He bucks, full-body, under Erik. Though he doesn’t quite come, it’s so close that he barely feels Erik’s wince. 

“Oh,” he gasps, about to apologize as Erik pulls back. Faun horns may be small--depending on how long he lets his hair go, Charles’s own are sometimes barely visible--but they’re sharper than any satyr’s. Erik’s lip is sliced open, maybe even deep enough to scar. But before Charles can say a word, Erik has him swept up in another hungry kiss, marking Charles as surely with blood as he did his scent. 

And that’s when it’s all far too much. Erik’s learning what to do with his hands, and Charles has no doubt that they’ll share many nights with Erik undoing him with the smallest gesture. 

But right now, it’s spring. And Charles is burning with heat, eager for the spurt of satyr come high up against his womb. Already, he’s aching for the day seasons from now, when Erik will cradle the weight of Charles’s belly as he fucks him, when Erik will bite the curve of his heavy teat. Shoving Erik back, Charles gasps desperately. He can’t clear his mind at all; the air reeks with mating. 

“Erik, please,” he says. Erik rears back a little, just enough to let Charles turn under him. He arches his back and flags his tail, displaying his hole. “Please,” he begs, again. _Fill me_ , he almost says, _fatten me with child_ , but right then Erik bays. 

It’s a rough, commanding cry, the sort of noise that’s meant to frighten off interlopers in the wood. Erik surrounds Charles with his body, shielding him, and Charles bleats wildly as he feels Erik thrust. 

At first Erik bucks in too low, his prick dragging hard against Charles’s clit, making Charles whine. But the next thrust is close, the head catching right up against the fleshy inner labia, and Charles arches back to get him _in_. 

And oh, it’s all Charles had hoped for, these last seasons. The slim tip of Erik’s cock parts his heat-slick cunt easily, letting Erik sink in deep. But as he pushes in, the taper of it stretches Charles deliciously. Charles just can’t stop bleating out, loud frantic sounds like a wounded animal. It’s lucky that few sentient beings beyond satyrs and fauns--and, of course, the nymphs who are rather attached to their ponds and streams--are willing to brave the woods this time of year. There’s a few reasons why satyrs are seen as so cruel and violent by humans, and embarrassingly, faun mating behavior is rather high on the list. 

But Charles can’t help himself. He cries and thrusts back, trying to ram Erik in to the root. Even when he can feel the pressure of Erik’s prick deep in his body and Erik’s balls shoved up against him, he keeps bucking his hips. Erik’s filling him, tight in as it’s possible to go, but Charles is in a heat frenzy. It’s not enough, he thinks, scratching furrows in the ground. Not enough, until Erik growls again and takes Charles’s nape between his teeth. 

The bite is sure and cruel, Erik’s teeth breaking skin. It stills Charles at once, which is rather the intended effect. Savage it may seem, it's lucky satyrs have a way to settle wild fauns at all. Charles bleats, sobbing heedlessly. Now that Erik has him, he feels wholly at the satyr’s mercy. Erik fucks into him in powerful, jolting, perfect thrusts. Digging his hands against the earth, Charles fights to stay upright, moaning as Erik splits him open over and over, as the noise of Erik’s grunts and the slap of his balls get louder and louder, as Charles feels the pressure in his groin build and build-- 

When he comes, it’s nothing like when he plays with himself. Usually he needs a break right off with that, because he tends to just go for his clit, nowhere as timidly as Erik did. And perhaps it’s just his heat, but as he feels himself squeeze and release against Erik’s pistoning cock, as falls limply to the ground, the first thing he thinks is, _oh, I could have that again_. 

And it’s a good thing. A satyr in deep rut can fuck for ages, even one just in the first successful season. Erik takes a second to arrange Charles’s loose hips more to his liking, and keeps fucking the slack hole of his cunt. Charles moans against a mouthful of grass. The angle is amazing, just like this. The fat base of Erik’s cock keeps pulling at him, the head of it keeps stabbing at something high up in him that makes him flush and shudder. 

His second orgasm of heat sneaks up like a hunter on a stag. Charles barely can tense before he’s letting out another high bleat of satisfaction and feels himself wet Erik’s fur. He blushes again--he’s sure he didn’t piss, so it’s a little shocking to be _that_ slick--but he can’t think for long. Erik keeps plowing into him, his low grunts of rut becoming more breathless and frantic. He’s shoving Charles against the grass, rough with the force of his mating, and Charles’s cunt is starting to get rather sore. For several moments, he’s just letting out the soft bleats of a faun satisfied and pleased to be used, waiting for Erik to spill his seed. He’s not at all anticipating another orgasm of his own. 

But, gradually, it builds in him. He starts tensing against Erik again, enjoying the ache of it, he starts feeling heat throb all through him. The way his chest is forced against the forest floor, it’s making his tight nipples scratch against the grass. It reminds him again of how lovely being Erik’s mate will be, how it’ll be to get fucked by Erik next spring, when Erik will pinch and tug at a chest sore from nursing. Charles cries out once more, high and reedy, and it’s not long after that Erik rams in and stills. 

Erik growls the whole time, spurting in long bursts, filling Charles up. Charles sighs, blissful and content. It’s not long before Erik softens and gently withdraws, collapsing at his side. 

Charles sniffs the air and grins, rolling over to cuddle against Erik’s side. A cool air is blowing in from the north, crisp and refreshing. It’s promising to be a mild summer, and perhaps a mild autumn to follow. 

The perfect year to carry a little faunling, or a satyrling. 

But first, there’s much planning to be done. Being mated means they get a nice little home, just them and their kids, until the day their young are old enough to join the herd. Charles enjoys the company of his fellow fauns, but--truth be told--he’s keen on the idea of having his own cozy little cave with a hearth and a proper shelf for his books. 

Erik’s long tail flops over onto his hip, breaking Charles out of his reverie. Reaching down, he pets it idly, and smiles up at Erik. 

“Hello there,” he teases, and Erik grins. 

That cut, Charles thinks, is definitely going to scar. No matter. It’s categorically impossible for Erik to be any less fetching. 

“Hello,” Erik replies, petting Charles in return. He brushes the leaves from his hair, rubs down the stripe of fur running his back, and winds up grabbing playfully at the short fluffy length of his tail. It was ticklish when he did that to tease Charles as a kid, and it’s no less so now, so Charles giggles and kicks at him. Erik laughs, and squeezes Charles once more before he lets go. 

They laze in sun, just enjoying the pleasant company. After a spell, Erik slides his hand back between Charles’s legs. 

“You’re all right?” he asks, tracing over the raw skin, dipping a finger just inside. Charles knows he’s just checking for tears, and it’s probably far too soon to be aroused again, but seeing Erik pull his fingers out momentarily and inspect them for blood before slipping in again-- 

“I am, of course,” Charles breathes. “A little sore, but, oh.” He rocks down on Erik’s hand, and when Erik raises his eyebrow skeptically, Charles grabs at him. 

“Don't stop. I like that.” 

Erik pushes his fingers in more deeply. “Oh, do you?” he asks, sounding very much like he knows the answer. Charles nips at his shoulder, and lets out a little more piss, hoping the scent of his heat will frenzy Erik once more. 

“Again?” Erik asks, laughing. 

Charles smirks, wrapping his thighs around Erik’s narrow waist. He's not in the least ashamed. 

“Yes,” he breathes against Erik’s ear, “Yes, again.” 


End file.
